Sunday, March 22, 2009

When One Runs Out of Referents


Small red x’s on the lower right of my desktop
inform me my computer’s quips and blips won’t
synapse to the Internet – whatever cyber
waves it had depended on have waved
a brisk bye-bye. The TV’s on – I click it off –
I’ll save the radio for some more needful
silence when its hum, imbroglio might salve

a sadder or more anxious ear than I quite have
right now. I wonder what it is I feel, or if it has
the least importance. Strange when one
runs out of referents. Today I saw the most
amazing ornament upon a stalwart tarnished
yellow corner building on Fourteenth Street,
Seventh Avenue – as if a strolling band of curlicue

and swelling line had once decided in – say,
nineteen-hundred-nine – to hazard makeshift
art nouveau which croaked a bit of awkward
home-grown jazz: a sort of snazzy New York
glow type thing. It made the building sing:
sweet treat! – surreal. I’ll go out now,
retrieve an image of it. Perhaps it’s what I feel.




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